FLOWERS 


lATHAaiNEl.  CAMERON 


iuigiaaBiBai 


h  Uitc^hiicu. 


THE    FLOWERS    I    LOVE 


Frontispiece 
ROSES    OF    MORNING 


THE  FLOWERS  I  LOVE 

A  SERIES  OF  TWENTY-FOUR  DRAWINGS  IN  COLOUR  BY 

KATHARINE    CAMERON 

WITH   AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  FLOWER    POEMS 
SELECTED    BY 

EDWARD    THOMAS 


NEW   YORK  :   FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  CO. 


PRINTED   IN   GREAT   BRITAIN. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Permission  has  been  kindly  given  to  use  copyright  poems  from  the 
following  volumes  : 

Gordon  Bottomley  :  The  Gate  of  Smaragdus,  aind  Chambers  of 
Imagery  (Elkin  Mathews). 

Robert  Bridges  :  Poetical  Works  (Smith  Elder). 

Charles  Dalmon  :  Song  Favours  (John  Lane),  and  Flower  and 
Leaf  (Grant  Richards). 

William  H.  Davies  :  New  Poems  (Elkin  Mathews),  Farewell  to 
Poesy  (A.  C.  Fifield),  and  Nature  Poems  (Fifield). 

Walter  de  la  Mare  :  Songs  of  Childhood  (Longmans),  Poems 
(Murray),  The  Listeners  (Constable),  and  Peacock  Pie  (Constable). 

Vivian  Locke  EUis  :   The  Venturers  (21  York  Buildings,  Adeiphi). 

Robert  Frost :   A  Boy's  Will  (David  Nutt). 

Ralph  Hodgson  :  Eve  and  other  Poems  (Poetry  Bookshop,  35 
Devonshire  Street,  Theobald's  Road,  London,  W.C). 

D.  H.  Lawrence  :   Georgian  Poetry  (Poetry  Bookshop). 

Rose  Macaulay :  The  Two  Blind  Countries  (Sidgwick  and 
Jackson) . 

Henry  Newbolt :   Poems  New  and  Old  (Murray) . 

Francis  Thompson  :  Collected  Works  (Bums  and  Oates). 


CONTENTS 


Hark  !  hark  !  the  Lark 
Songs  from  '  Arcades  ' 
To  Meadows        .... 
Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud     . 
The  three  Cherry  Trees    . 

Mowing 

To  A  Nightingale 

This  Lime-tree  Bower 

The  Question       .         .         .         . 

Evelyn  Hope       .         .         .         . 

To  Mistress  Isabel  Pennell 

O  GIN  MY  Love    .         .         .         . 

Bridal  Song         .         .         .         . 

Go,  nor  acquaint  the  Rose 

Malvolio 

Sonnet         

Now  sleeps  the  Crimson  Petal  . 
Coming  to  kiss  her  Lips     . 
Love-letters  made  of  Flowers  . 
The  Seeds  of  Love 
To  Emilia  Viviani 
Remembrance       .        .        .        . 

May  Time 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face 


Shakespeare 

PACE 

I 

Milton 

17  ,-,«.•,  fc 

I 

tierricR        .          .          . 
Tennyson    . 

2 

3 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

5 

Robert  Frost 

6 

Keais 

7 

Coleridge      . 

10 

Shelley 

12 

Browning    . 

14 

Skelton 

i6 

Burns 

17 

From  '  The  Two  Noble  Kins 

men  '    . 

i8 

Vivian  Locke  Ellis 

19 

Landor 

19 

Sidney 

20 

Tennyson     . 

21 

Spenser 

21 

Leigh  Hunt 

22 

Anon. 

24 

Shelley 

25 

Shelley 

26 

Thomas  Morley    . 

27 

Thomas  Campion 

27 

A  Song        

Carew 

28 

A  Garden  Fancy 

Browning    .         .         , 

29 

Snapdragon          .         .         .         . 

D.  H.  Lawrence  . 

30 

Heart's-ease        .... 

Landor 

35 

To  THE  Cyclamen 

Landor 

35 

How   Pansies,    or    Heart's-ease. 

came  First    .... 

Herrick        . 

35 

A  Legend  of  Cherries 

Charles  Dalmon   . 

36 

Eve 

Ralph  Hodgson    . 

37 

The  Child  in  the  Story  awakes  . 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

39 

The  Thief 

Rose  Macaulay     . 

40 

The  Tuft  of  Flowers 

Robert  Frost 

42 

The  Primrose      .... 

William  H.  Davies        . 

44 

To  Violets 

Herrick        . 

45 

'  The  Hawthorn  hath  a  Deathly 

Smell'  

Walter  de  la  Mare 

46 

To  Daffodils       .... 

Herrick 

47 

A  Song  of  Apple-bluth 

Gordon  Bottomley 

47 

Evening  Primrose 

John  Clare 

49 

Rose  of  Sharon  .... 

Herrick 

49 

Beans  in  Blossom 

John  Clare 

50 

The  Wood-spurge 

Rossetti 

50 

The  Sun-flower  .... 

Blake 

51 

The  Poppy  

Francis  Thompson 

52 

The  Daisy 

William  H.  Davies 

55 

A  Widow's  Weeds 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

55 

viii 

The  Garden  in  September  , 

Sea-country 

The  Bluebell      . 

The  Lilac    . 

The  Moss-rose     , 

Sonnet 

The  Deserted  Garden 

In  yon  Garden    . 

Ophelia 

The  Garden  of  Love  . 

My  Love  built  me  a  Bonnie  Bower 

Fine  Flowers  in  the  Valley 

A  Late  Walk 

The  End  of  Summer 

The  Arbour 

Another  Spring   . 

The  Crab   and   Maple 

Milfield 
Upon  the  Priory  Grovi 
The  Attendant  Spirit 

Epiloguises   . 
Song    .        .        .        , 
Candlemas  Eve 
Eager  Spring 


Trees  in 


IN  '  COMUS ' 


Robert  Bridges      . 

PACK 

•        56 

Vivian  Locke  Ellis 

.        58 

Emily  Bronte 

59 

William  Barnes    . 

60 

Henry  Newbolt     . 

61 

William  Browne  . 

62 

E.  B.  Browning  . 

63 

Anon. 

67 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

68 

Blake 

68 

Anon. 

69 

Anon. 

70 

Robert  Frost 

71 

William  H.  Davies        . 

72 

Charles  Dalmon    . 

73 

Christina  Rossetti 

74 

Thomas  Howell     , 

75 

Henry  Vaughan   , 

76 

Milton 

78 

Tennyson     . 

79 

Herrick 

80 

Gordon  Boitomley 

81 

LIST    OF    PLATES 

ROSES  OF  MORNING Frontispiece 

rAci 

DREAM  ROSES 4 

NOVEMBER     6 

SCYLLAS ,            ...  14 

CAMOMILE 16 

ROSES  IN  A  SATSUMA  BOWL    .-...,  20 

BLACK-EYED  DAISIES 22 

FLOWERS  OF  DAWN 24 

BLUE  DELPHINIUMS 30 

'YOU  BEES  WITH  THE  PLUSHY  AND  PLAUSIBLE  NOSES'    .  40 

SWEET  LAVENDER 42 

BLACKTHORN  AND  A  BLUE  BUTTERFLY   ....  44 
WILD  VIOLETS          ......                         .46 

THE  DUEL 48 

ROSE  OF  APRIL       .......  50 

DAISIES  AND  DELPHINIUMS    .                         ....  54 

TOAD-FLAX 56 

ALLONGIA j8 

ROSES  OF  THE  TWILIGHT 12 

'MOORLAND' 54 

HONEYSUCKLE 74 

GRASS  OF  PARNASSUS 78 

OCTOBER  ROSES .80 

APRIL  MORNING 82 

xi 


H 


HARK!    HARK! 

ARK  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  hes  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is. 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise. 

SHAKESPEARE 


SONGS  FROM  *  ARCADES 


o 


'ER  the  smooth  enamelled  green, 
Wliere  no  print  of  step  hath  been. 

Follow  me,  as  I  sing 

And  touch  the  warbled  string  : 
Under  the  shady  roof 
Of  branching  elm  star-proof 

Follow  me. 
I  will  bring  you  where  she  sits. 
Clad  in  splendour  as  befits 

Her  deity. 
Such  a  rural  Queen 
All  Arcadia  hath  not  seen. 


Nymphs  and  Shepherds,  dance  no  more 

By  sandy  Ladon's  hhed  banks  ; 
On  old  Lycjeus,  or  Cyllene  hoar, 

Trip  no  more  in  twiUght  ranks  ; 
Though  Erymanth  your  loss  deplore, 

A  better  soil  shall  give  ye  thanks. 
From  the  stony  Maenalus 
Bring  your  flocks,  and  live  with  us  ; 
Here  ye  shall  have  greater  grace, 
To  serve  the  Lady  of  this  place. 
Though  Syrinx  your  Pan's  mistress  were. 
Yet  Syrinx  well  might  wait  on  her. 

Such  a  rural  Queen 

All  Arcadia  hath  not  seen. 

MILTON 


Y 


TO  MEADOWS 

E  have  been  fresh  and  green. 

Ye  have  been  fill'd  with  flowers  ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

You  have  beheld  how  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 

Ye  've  heard  them  sweetly  sing. 
And  seen  them  in  a  round  ; 

Each  virgin,  hke  a  spring. 
With  honeysuckles  crowned. 


But  now,  we  see  none  here. 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread. 

And  with  dishevelled  hair 
Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

Ye  're  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates,  alone. 

HERRICK 


COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD 


c 


OME  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  Ught  of  the  sun  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird. 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

3 


I  said  to  the  lily,  '  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  '  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those. 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

'  For  ever  and  ever,  mine.' 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash 'd  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
4 


DREAM    ROSES 


But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  '  She  is  near,  she  is  near  '  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  '  She  is  late  '  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  I  hear  ' ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  '  I  wait.' 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

TENNYSON 


THE  THREE  CHERRY  TREES 

THERE  were  three  cherry  trees  once. 
Grew  in  a  garden  all  shady  ; 
And  there  for  delight  of  so  gladsome  a  sight. 
Walked  a  most  beautiful  lady. 
Dreamed  a  most  beautiful  lady. 

5 


Birds  in  those  branches  did  sing. 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet, 
But  she  walking  there  was  by  far  the  most  fair — 
Lovelier  than  all  else  within  it, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet. 

But  blossoms  to  berries  do  come. 
All  hanging  on  stalks  light  and  slender, 
And  one  long  summer's  day  charmed  that  lady  away. 
With  vows  sweet  and  merry  and  tender  ; 
A  lover  with  voice  low  and  tender. 

Moss  and  lichen  the  green  branches  deck  ; 
Weeds  nod  in  its  paths  green  and  shady  : 
Yet  a  light  footstep  seems  to  wander  in  dreams. 
The  ghost  of  that  beautiful  lady. 
That  happy  and  beautiful  lady. 

V^^ALTER   DE   LA   MARE 


MOWING 

THERE  was  never  a  sound  beside  the  wood  but  one, 
And  that  was  my  long  scythe  whispering  to  the  ground. 
What  was  it  it  whispered  ?     I  knew  not  well  myself ; 
Perhaps  it  was  something  about  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
Something,  perhaps,  about  the  lack  of  sound — 
And  that  was  why  it  whispered  and  did  not  speak. 
It  was  no  dream  of  the  gift  of  idle  hours. 
Or  easy  gold  at  the  hand  of  fay  or  elf  : 
Anything  more  than  the  truth  would  have  seemed  too 

weak 
To  the  earnest  love  that  laid  the  swale  in  rows, 
Not  without  feeble-pointed  spikes  of  flowers 
6 


NOVEMBER 


(Pale  orchises),  and  scared  a  bright  green  snake. 
The  fact  is  the  sweetest  dream  that  labour  knows. 
My  long  scythe  whispered  and  left  the  hay  to  make. 

ROBERT  FROST 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  dnmk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 

7 


Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 

White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 

Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;   and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme. 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 


Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  bom  for  death,  immortal  Bird  1 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Chami'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !    the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self. 
Adieu  !   the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !   adieu  !   thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

KEATS. 


w 


THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER 

ELL,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain. 
This  hme-tree  bower  my  prison  !     I  have  lost 
Beauties  and  feelings,  such  as  would  have  been 
Most  sweet  to  my  remembrance  even  when  age 
Had  dimmed  my  eyes  to  blindness  !     They,  mean- 
while, 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again, 
On  springy  heath,  along  the  hill-top  edge. 
Wander  in  gladness,  and  wind  down,  perchance, 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told  ; 
The  roaring  dell,  o'erwooded,  narrow,  deep. 
And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  sun  ; 
WTiere  its  slim  trunk  the  ash  from  rock  to  rock 
Flings  arching  like  a  bridge  ; — that  branchless  ash, 
Unsunned  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 
Ne'er  tremble  to  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 
Fanned  by  the  waterfall !   and  there  my  friends 
Behold  the  dark  green  file  of  long  lank  weeds. 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 
Beneath  the  wide  wide  heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  tract  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea. 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  sails  light  up 
The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betwixt  two  isles 
Of  purple  shadow  !     Yes  !  they  wander  on 
In  gladness  all ;  but  thou,  methinks,  most  glad. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  for  thou  hast  pined 
And  hungered  after  Nature,  many  a  year, 
In  the  great  city  pent,  winning  thy  way 


With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  and  pain 
And  strange  calamity  !     Ah  !  slowly  sink 
Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  sun  ! 
Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb. 
Ye  purple  heath-flowers !  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds  ! 
Live  in  the  yellow  light,  ye  distant  groves  ! 
And  kindle,  thou  blue  ocean  !     So  my  friend 
Struck  with  deep  joy  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 
Silent  with  swimming  sense  ;  yea,  gazing  round 
On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth  seem 
Less  gross  than  bodily  ;  and  of  such  hues 
As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,  when  yet  He  makes 
Spirits  perceive  His  presence. 

A  delight 
Comes  sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  glad 
As  I  myself  were  there  !     Nor  in  this  bower. 
This  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I  not  marked 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.     Pale  beneath  the  blaze 
Hung  the  transparent  foliage  ;  and  I  watched 
Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !     And  that  walnut-tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep  radiance  lay 
Full  on  the  ancient  ivy,  which  usurps 
Those  fronting  elms,  and  now,  with  blackest  mass 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter  hue 
Through  the  late  twilight :  and  though  now  the  bat 
Wheels  silent  by,  and  not  a  swallow  twitters, 
Yet  stiU  the  solitary  humble-bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower  !     Henceforth  I  shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure. 
No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there, 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 


Awake  to  love  and  beauty  1  and  sometimes 
'Tis  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good, 
That  we  may  lift  the  soul,  and  contemplate 
With  lively  joy  the  joys  we  cannot  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !   when  the  last  rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homeward,  I  blest  it  !   deeming  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  cross'd  the  mighty  orb's  dilated  glory, 
While  thou  stoodst  gazing  ;   or  when  all  was  still, 
Flew  creaking  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  life. 

COLERIDGE. 

THE  QUESTION 

DREAMED  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way. 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring. 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray. 
Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  bluebells,  at  whose  birth 

The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets — 
Like  a  child,  half  in  tenderness  and  mirth — 

Its  mother's  face  with  heaven's  collected  tears. 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

12 


And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-coloured  may. 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew,  yet  drained  not  by  the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 
With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray  ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,   purple  prankt  with 
white. 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge. 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonUght  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  Hke  array 
Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come. 
That  I  might  there  present  it ! — oh,  to  whom  ? 

SHELLEY. 


13 


B 


EVELYN  HOPE 

EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
This  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;   beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares. 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
TiU  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide^ 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !   for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 

And  created  the  love  to  reward  the  love  : 
I  claim  you  stUl,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
14 


SCYLLAS 


^ 

(                       '  *^m 

% 

1 

I  ■ 

Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  : 

Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes  ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  fuU  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  1 

What  is  the  issue  ?   let  us  see  ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while, 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold. 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile. 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

BROWNING. 


15 


TO  MISTRESS  ISABEL  PENNELL 


B 


Y  Saint  Mary,  my  lady. 
Your  mammy  and  your  daddy 
Brought  forth  a  goodly  baby. 

My  maiden  Isabel, 
Reflaring  rosabel. 
The  flagrant  camomel. 

The  ruddy  rosary. 

The  sovereign  rosemary. 

The  pretty  strawberry. 

The  columbine,  the  nepte, 
The  gillyflower  well  set. 
The  proper  violet, 

Ennewed  your  colour 
Is  like  the  daisy  flower 
After  the  April  shower. 

Star  of  the  morrow  gray. 
The  blossom  on  the  spray. 
The  freshest  flower  of  May, 

Maidenly  demure. 

Of  womanhood  the  lure  ; 

Wherefore  I  make  you  sure. 


It  were  an  heavenly  health, 
It  were  an  endless  wealth, 
A  life  for  God  himself, 
i6 


CAMOMILE 


..J 

.t 

,m4' 

Sr^ 

## 

o 


To  hear  this  nightingale 
Among  the  birdes  small 
Warbling  in  the  vale, 

'  Dug,  dug,  jug,  jug  ! 

Good  year  and  good  luck  !  ' 

With  *  Chuck,  chuck,  chuck,  chuck  !  ' 

SKELTON. 


O  GIN  MY  LOVE 

WERE  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring. 

And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing. 

How  I  wad  mourn  when  it  was  torn. 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing. 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renew'd. 

O  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose. 
That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa', 

And  I  mysel'  a  drap  o'  dew 
Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa'  ! 

O  !   there  beyond  expression  blest, 
I  'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest. 
Till  fley'd  awa'  by  Phoebus'  light. 

BURNS. 


17 


R 


BRIDAL  SONG 

OSES,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone, 
Not  royal  in  their  smells  alone, 

But  in  their  hue  ; 
Maiden  pinks,  of  odour  faint, 
Daisies  smell-less,  yet  most  quaint. 

And  sweet  thyme  true  ; 

Primrose,  firstborn  child  of  Ver, 
Merry  springtime's  harbinger. 

With  harebells  dim  ; 
Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing, 
Marigolds  on  deathbeds  blowing, 

Larks'-heels  trim. 

All  dear  Nature's  children  sweet. 
Lie  'fore  bride  and  bridegroom's  feet. 

Blessing  their  sense  ! 
Not  an  angel  of  the  air. 
Bird  melodious,  or  bird  fair, 

Be  absent  hence  ! 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,  nor 
The  boding  raven,  nor  chough  hoar. 

Nor  chattering  pie. 
May  on  our  bride-house  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring. 

But  from  it  fly  ! 

FROM  '  THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


i8 


GO,  NOR  ACQUAINT  THE  ROSE 


G 


T 


O,  nor  acquaint  the  Rose, 

Nor  Beauty's  household,  with  that  grief  of  thine. 

Stand  not  in  wait  with  those 

Who  with  their  knocking  trouble  the  divine. 

But  thou,  let  Beauty  be  ; 

Dread  distance  of  her  tranced  languors  keep  ; 

If  then  she  follow  thee 

When  thou  art  treading  noiseless  from  her  sleep. 

Rose  then  and  wafted  Rose, 

Like  summer  past  and  summer's  breath  still  there, 

Shall  render  all  she  owes. 

More  than  she  ever  yielded  to  thy  prayer. 

VIVIAN  LOCKE  ELLIS. 


MALVOLIO 

HOU  hast  been  very  tender  to  the  moon, 
MalvoUo  !  and  on  many  a  daffodil 
And  many  a  daisy  hast  thou  yeam'd,  until 
The  nether  jaw  quiver 'd  with  thy  good  heart. 
But  tell  me  now,  Malvolio,  tell  me  true. 
Hast  thou  not  sometimes  driven  from  their  play 
The  village  children,  when  they  came  too  near 
Thy  study,  if  hit  ball  rais'd  shouts  around. 
Or  if  delusive  trap  shook  off  thy  muse. 
Pregnant  with  wonders  for  another  age  ? 
Hast  thou  sat  still  and  patient  (tho'  sore  prest 
Hearthward  to  stoop  and  warm  thy  blue-naU'd  hand) 
Lest  thou  shouldst  frighten  from  a  frosty  fare 

19 


The  speckled  thrush,  raising  his  bill  aloft 
To  swallow  the  red  berry  on  the  ash 
By  thy  white  window,  three  short  paces  off  ? 
If  this  thou  hast  not  done,  and  hast  done  that, 
I  do  exile  thee  from  the  moon  twelve  whole 
Calendar  months,  debarring  thee  from  use 
Of  rose,  bud,  blossom,  odour,  simile. 
And  furthermore  I  do  hereby  pronounce 
Divorce  between  the  nightingale  and  thee. 


N 


LANDOR. 


SONNET 

YMPH  of  the  garden  where  all  beauties  be, — 
Beauties  which  do  in  excellency  pass 
His  who  till  death  looked  in  a  watery  glass. 
Or  hers  whom  naked  the  Troian  boy  did  see  ; 
Sweet  garden-nymph,  which  keeps  the  cherry  tree 
Whose  fruit  does  far  the  Hesperian  taste  surpass. 
Most  sweet-fair,  most  fair-sweet,  do  not,  alas. 
From  coming  near  those  cherries  banish  me. 
For  though,  full  of  desire,  empty  of  wit. 
Admitted  late  by  your  best-graced  grace, 
I  caught  at  one  of  them,  and  hungry  bit ; 
Pardon  that  fault ;  once  more  grant  me  the  place 
And  I  do  swear,  even  by  the  same  delight, 
I  will  but  kiss  ;  I  never  more  will  bite. 

SIDNEY. 


20 


ROSES    IN    A    SATSUMA    BOWL 


NOW  SLEEPS  THE  CRIMSON  PETAL 


N 


OW  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white  ; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk  ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  fire-fly  wakens  :   waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a  ghost. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars. 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 

TENNYSON. 


COMING  TO  KISS  HER  LIPS 


c 


OMING  to  kiss  her  lips  (such  grace  I  found), 
Meseemed,  I  smelt  a  garden  of  sweet  flowers. 
That  dainty  odours  from  them  threw  around. 
For  damsels  fit  to  deck  their  lovers'  bowers. 
Her  lips  did  smell  Uke  unto  Gillyflowers  ; 
Her  ruddy  cheeks,  like  unto  Roses  red  ; 
Her  snowy  brows,  Uke  budded  Bellamours  ; 
Her  lovely  eyes,  Uke  Pinks  but  newly  spread 


Her  goodly  bosom,  like  a  Strawberry  bed  ; 

Her  neck,  like  to  a  bunch  of  Columbines  ; 

Her  breast,  like  Lilies  ere  their  leaves  be  shed  ; 

Her  nipples,  like  young  blossomed  Jessamines  : 
Such  fragrant  flowers  do  give  most  odorous  smell 
But  her  sweet  odour  did  them  all  excel. 

SPENSER. 


LOVE-LETTERS  MADE  OF  FLOWERS 

ON  A  PRINT  OF  ONE  OF  THEM  IN  A  BOOK 


A 


N  exquisite  invention  this. 
Worthy  of  Love's  most  honied  kiss. 
This  art  of  writing  billets-doux 
In  buds,  and  odours,  and  bright  hues  ! 
In  saying  all  one  feels  and  thinks 
In  clever  daffodils  and  pinks  ; 
In  puns  of  tulips  ;  and  in  phrases. 
Charming  for  their  truth,  of  daisies  ; 
Uttering,  as  well  as  silence  may. 
The  sweetest  words  the  sweetest  way. 
How  fit  too  for  the  lady's  bosom  ! 
The  place  where  billets-doux  repose  'em. 

What  delight,  in  some  sweet  spot 
Combining  love  with  garden  plot. 
At  once  to  cultivate  one's  flowers 
And  one's  epistolary  powers  ! 
Growing  one's  own  choice  words  and  fancies 
In  orange  tubs,  and  beds  of  pansies  ; 
One's  sighs  and  passionate  declarations 
In  odorous  rhetoric  of  carnations  ; 

22 


BLACK-EYED    DAISIES 


--% 


Seeing  how  far  one's  stocks  will  reach  ; 
Taking  due  care  one's  flowers  of  speech 
To  guard  from  blight  as  well  as  bathos, 
And  watering,  every  day,  one's  pathos  ! 

A  letter  conies,  just  gather 'd.     We 
Dote  on  its  tender  brilliancy  ; 
Inhale  its  delicate  expressions 
Of  balm  and  pea,  and  its  confessions 
Made  with  as  sweet  a  Maiden's  Blush 
As  ever  mom  bedew'd  on  bush 
(Tis  in  reply  to  one  of  ours. 
Made  of  the  most  convincing  flowers), 
Then  after  we  have  kissed  its  wit 
And  heart,  in  water  putting  it 
(To  keep  its  remarks  fresh),  go  round 
Our  little  eloquent  plot  of  ground. 
And  with  enchanted  hands  compose 
Our  answer  all  of  lily  and  rose. 
Of  tuberose  and  of  violet, 
And  Little  Darling  (Mignonette), 
Of  Look  at  me  and  Call  me  to  you 
(Words  that  while  they  greet  go  through  you). 
Of  Thoughts,  of  Flames,  Forget-me-not, 
Bridewort, — in  short,  the  whole  blest  lot 
Of  vouchers  for  a  life-long  kiss 
And  literally,  breathing  bliss. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


23 


THE  SEEDS  OF  LOVE 

ISOW'D  the  seeds  of  love, 
It  was  all  in  the  spring, 
In  April,  May,  and  sunny  June, 
When  small  birds  they  do  sing. 

My  garden  was  planted  full 

Of  flowers  everjAvhere, 
But  for  myself  I  could  not  choose 

The  flower  I  held  so  dear. 

My  gardener  was  standing  by, 

And  he  would  choose  for  me  ; 
He  chose  the  primrose,  the  lily  and  pink, 

But  those  I  refused  all  three. 

The  primrose  I  did  reject, 

Because  it  came  too  soon  ; 
The  lily  and  the  pink  I  overlook'd. 

And  vow'd  I  would  wait  till  June. 

In  June  came  the  rose  so  red, 
And  that 's  the  flower  for  me  ; 

But  when  I  gathered  the  rose  so  dear 
I  gained  but  the  willow  tree. 

Oh,  the  willow  tree  will  twist. 
And  the  willow  tree  will  twine  ; 

And  would  I  were  in  the  young  man's  arms. 
That  ever  has  this  heart  of  mine. 

My  gardener,  as  he  stood  by, 

He  bade  me  take  great  care. 
For  if  I  gathered  the  rose  so  red. 

There  groweth  up  a  sharp  thorn  there. 
24 


FLOWERS    OF    DAWN 


M 


I  told  him  I  'd  take  no  care, 

Till  I  did  feel  the  smart. 
And  still  did  press  the  thorn  so  dear 

Till  the  thorn  did  pierce  my  heart. 

A  posy  of  hyssop  I  '11  make. 

No  other  flower  I  '11  touch, 
That  all  the  world  may  plainly  see 

I  love  one  flower  too  much. 

My  garden  is  now  run  wild  ; 

When  I  shall  plant  anew, 
My  bed,  that  once  was  filled  with  thyme, 

Is  now  o'errun  with  rue. 

ANON. 


TO  EMILIA  VIVIANI 

ADONNA,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 
Sweet-basil  and  mignonette, 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be  ? 

Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ? 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower — the  very  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new. 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee. 
Send  the  stars  light,  but  send  not  love  to  me. 

In  whom  love  ever  made 
Health  like  a  heap  of  embers  soon  to  fade. 

SHELLEY. 
25 


REMEMBRANCE 

SWIFTER  far  than  summer's  flight — 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight — 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone — 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 
I  am  left  lone,  alone. 

The  swallow  summer  comes  again — 
The  owlet  night  resumes  her  reign — 
But  the  wild-swan  youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. — 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow. 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow  ; 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed — 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head — 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead — 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be  : 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear — 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear. 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 

SHELLEY. 


26 


T 


MAY  TIME 

HYRSIS  and  Milla,  arm  in  arm  together. 

In  merry  may-time  to  the  green  garden  walked, 

Where  all  the  way  they  wanton  riddles  talked  ; 

The  youthful  boy,  kissing  her  cheeks  so  rosy, 

Beseeched  her  there  to  gather  him  a  posy. 

She  straight  her  light  green  silken  coats  uptucked, 

And  may  for  Mill  and  thyme  for  Thyrsis  plucked  ; 

Which   when   she   brought,   he   clasped   her   by  the 

middle 
And  kissed  her  sweet,  but  could  not  read  her  riddle. 
'  Ah,  fool !  '  with  that  the  nymph  set  up  a  laughter. 
And  blushed,  and  ran  away,  and  he  ran  after. 

THOMAS   MORLEY. 


THERE  IS  A  GARDEN  IN  HER  FACE 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 
Where  roses  and  white  lilies  grow  ; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow. 

There  cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy. 
Till  '  Cherry  ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows. 
They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with  snow  ; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy, 
Till  '  Cherry  ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

27 


Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still. 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt,  with  eye  or  hand, 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh 
Till  '  Cherry  ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

THOMAS  CAMPION. 


A 


A  SONG 

SK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows. 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  'light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest, 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies. 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

CAREW. 

28 


H 


A  GARDEN  FANCY 

THE  FLOWER'S  NAME 

ERE'S  the  garden  she  walked  across. 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since  : 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince  1 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung  ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spumed. 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box  : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses  ranged  in  a  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by  ! 
She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  I  know  ; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie  ! 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  Up, 

Stooped  over  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim  ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name  : 
What  a  name  !     Was  it  love  or  praise  ? 

Speech  half-asleep  or  song  half-awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days. 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase  ; 

29 


But  do  not  detain  me  now  ;   for  she  lingers 
There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 

And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 
Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not. 

Stay  as  you  are,  and  be  loved  for  ever  ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not : 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never  ! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle. 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
TUl  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee  ; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces. 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall ! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all ! 

BROWNING. 


SNAPDRAGON 

SHE  bade  me  follow  to  her  garden  where 
The  mellow  sunlight  stood  as  in  a  cup 
Between  the  old  grey  walls  ;   I  did  not  dare 
To  raise  my  face,  I  did  not  dare  look  up 
Lest  her  bright  eyes  like  sparrows  should  fly  in 
My  windows  of  discovery  and  shrill  '  Sin  !  ' 
30 


BLUE    DELPHINIUMS 


So  with  a  downcast  mien  and  laughing  voice 
I  followed,  followed  the  swing  of  her  white  dress 
That  rocked  in  a  lilt  along  :   I  watched  the  poise 
Of  her  feet  as  they  flew  for  a  space,  then  paused  to  press 
The  grass  deep  down  with  the  royal  burden  of  her  : 
And  gladly  I  'd  offered  my  breast  to  the  tread  of  her. 

'  I  like  to  see,'  she  said,  and  she  crouched  her  down. 
She  sunk  into  my  sight  like  a  settling  bird  ; 
And  her  bosom  couched  in  the  confines  of  her  gown 
Like  heavy  birds  at  rest  there,  softly  stirred 
By  her  measured  breaths  :   '  I  like  to  see,'  said  she, 
'  The  snapdragon  put  out  his  tongue  at  me.' 
She  laughed,  she  reached  her  hand  out  to  the  flower, 
Closing  its  crimson  throat :  my  own  throat  in  her  power 
Strangled,  my  heart  swelled  up  so  full 
As  if  it  would  burst  its  wineskin  in  my  throat, 
Choke  me  in  my  own  crimson  ;   I  watched  her  pull 
The  gorge   of  the  gaping  flower,  till  the  blood  did 
float 

Over  my  eyes  and  I  was  blind — 

Her  large  brown  hand  stretched  over 

The  windows  of  my  mind. 

And  in  the  dark  I  did  discover 

Things  I  was  out  to  find  : 

My  grail,  a  brown  bowl  twined 

With  swollen  veins  that  met  in  the  wrist. 

Under  whose  brown  the  amethyst 

I  longed  to  taste  :  and  I  longed  to  turn 

My  heart's  red  measure  in  her  cup, 

I  longed  to  feel  my  hot  blood  bum 

With  the  lambent  amethyst  in  her  cup. 

31 


Then  suddenly  she  looked  up 

And  I  was  blind  in  a  tawny-gold  day 

Till  she  took  her  eyes  away. 

So  she  came  down  from  above 
And  emptied  my  heart  of  love  .  .  . 
So  I  held  my  heart  aloft 
To  the  cuckoo  that  fluttered  above, 
And  she  settled  soft. 

It  seemed  that  I  and  the  morning  world 
Were  pressed  cup-shape  to  take  this  reiver 
Bird  who  was  weary  to  have  furled 
Her  wings  on  us, 
As  we  were  weary  to  receive  her  : 

This  bird,  this  rich 
Sumptuous  central  grain, 
This  mutable  witch. 
This  one  refrain. 
This  laugh  in  the  fight. 
This  clot  of  light. 
This  core  of  night. 

She  spoke,  and  I  closed  my  eyes 
To  shut  hallucinations  out. 
I  echoed  with  surprise 
Hearing  my  mere  lips  shout 
The  answer  they  did  devise. 

Again,  I  saw  a  brown  bird  hover 
Over  the  flowers  at  my  feet ; 
I  felt  a  brown  bird  hover 
Over  my  heart,  and  sweet 


32 


Its  shadow  lay  on  my  heart ; 
I  thought  I  saw  on  the  clover 
A  brown  bee  pulling  apart 
The  closed  flesh  of  the  clover 
And  burrowing  in  its  heart. 

She  moved  her  hand,  and  again 

I  felt  the  brown  bird  hover 

Over  my  heart  .  .  .  and  then 

The  bird  came  down  on  my  heart. 

As  on  a  nest  the  rover 

Cuckoo  comes,  and  shoves  over 

The  brim  each  careful  part 

Of  love,  takes  possession  and  settles  her  down, 

With  her  wings  and  her  feathers  does  drown 

The  nest  in  a  heat  of  love. 

She  turned  her  flushed  face  to  me  for  the  glint 
Of  a  moment.     '  See,'  she  laughed,  '  if  you  also 
Can  make  them  yawn.'     I  put  my  hand  to  the  dint 
In  the  flower's  throat,  and  the  flower  gaped  wide  with 

woe. 
She  watched,  she  went  of  a  sudden  intensely  still. 
She  watched  my  hand,  and  I  let  her  watch  her  fill. 

I  pressed  the  wretched,  throttled  flower  between 

My  fingers,  till  its  head  lay  back,  its  fangs 

Poised  at  her  :  like  a  weapon  my  hand  stood  white  and 

keen, 
And  I  held  the  choked  flower-serpent  in  its  pangs 
Of  mordant  anguish  till  she  ceased  to  laugh. 
Until  her  pride's  flag,  smitten,  cleaved  down  to  the 

staff. 
E  33 


She  hid  her  face,  she  murmured  between  her  Hps 

The  low  word  '  Don't !  '     I  let  the  flower  fall, 

But  held  my  hand  afloat  still  towards  the  slips 

Of  blossom  she  fingered,  and  my  crisp  fingers  all 

Put  forth  to  her  :  she  did  not  move,  nor  I, 

For  my  hand  like  a  snake  watched  hers  that  could 

not  fly. 
Then  I  laughed  in  the  dark  of  my  heart,  I  did  exult 
Like  a  sudden  chuckling  of  music  :   I  bade  her  eyes 
Meet  mine,  I  opened  her  helpless  eyes  to  consult 
Their  fear,  their  shame,  their  joy  that  underlies 
Defeat  in  such  a  battle  :  in  the  dark  of  her  eyes 
My  heart  was  fierce  to  make  her  laughter  rise  .  .  . 
Till  her  dark  deeps  shook  with  convulsive  thrills,  and 

the  dark 
Of  her  spirit  wavered  like  water  thrilled  with  light, 
And  my  heart  leaped  up  in  a  longing  to  plunge  its  stark 
Fervour  within  the  pool  of  her  twihght : 
Within  her  spacious  gloom,  in  the  mystery 
Of  her  barbarous  soul,  to  grope  with  ecstasy  .  .  . 

And  I  do  not  care  though  the  large  hands  of  revenge 

Shall  get  my  throat  at  last — shall  get  it  soon. 

If  the  joy  that  they  are  lifted  to  avenge 

Have  risen  red  on  my  night  as  a  harvest  moon, 

Which  even  death  can  only  put  out  for  me, 

And  death  I  know  is  better  than  not-to-be. 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE. 


34 


HEART'S-EASE 

THERE  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 
But  not  until  first  worn  by  you  .  .  , 
Heart's-ease  ...  of  all  earth's  flowers  most  rare 
Bring  it  ;   and  bring  enough  for  two. 

LANDOR. 


T 


TO  THE  CYCLAMEN 

HOU  Cyclamen  of  crumpled  horn. 

Toss  not  thy  head  aside  ; 
Repose  it  where  the  Loves  were  bom, 

In  that  warm  dell  abide. 
Whatever  flowers,  on  mountain,  field, 

Or  garden,  may  arise, 
Thine  only  that  pure  odour  yield 

Which  never  can  suffice. 
Emblem  of  her  I  've  loved  so  long, 
Go,  carry  her  this  little  song. 

LANDOR. 


HOW  PANSIES,  OR  HEART'S-EASE, 
CAME  FIRST 

FROLIC  virgins  once  these  were, 
Over-loving,  living  here  : 
Being  here  their  ends  denied, 
Ran  for  sweethearts  mad,  and  died. 
Love,  in  pity  of  their  tears. 
And  their  loss  in  blooming  years. 
For  their  restless  here-spent  hours, 
Gave  them  heart's-ease  turned  to  flowers. 

HERRICK. 

35 


A  LEGEND  OF  CHERRIES 

NOW,  St.  Joseph's  cottage  stood 
Close  beside  a  cherry  wood, 

And,  what  time  the  trees  grew  red 
With  their  luscious  fruit,  'tis  said, 

Jesus,  at  His  mother's  gown. 
Begged  to  have  the  branches  down  : 

All  in  vain  she  made  reply, 
'  Mother  cannot  reach  so  high,' 

For  He  begged  them  none  the  less, 
In  His  perfect  childishness. 

Joseph,  in  his  workshop  near. 
Heard  the  Babe  and  would  not  hear. 

Heard  the  Blessed  Virgin  say, 

'  Joseph,  pull  them  down,  I  pray  I  ' 

But  he  answered,  with  a  frown, 
'  Let  His  Father  pull  them  down.' 

Then,  to  his  great  wonderment. 
Every  cherry  branch  was  bent. 

And  Our  Lady  sweetly  smiled, 
Picking  cherries  for  her  Child. 

CHARLES  DALMON. 


36 


EVE 

VE,  with  her  basket,  was 
Deep  in  the  bells  and  grass, 
'  Wading  in  bells  and  grass 
Up  to  her  knees, 
Picking  a  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Down  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Under  the  trees. 


Mute  as  a  mouse  in  a 
Comer  the  cobra  lay. 
Curled  round  the  bough  of  the 
Cinnamon  tall  .  .  . 
Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble  proud  heaven  and 
Now  was  the  moment  or 
Never  at  all. 


'  Eva  ! '     Each  syllable 
Light  as  a  flower  fell, 
'  Eva  !  '  he  whispered  the 
Wondering  maid. 
Soft  as  a  bubble  sung 
Out  of  a  Unnet's  lung, 
Soft  and  most  silverly 
'  Eva  !  '   he  said. 


Picture  that  orchard  sprite, 
Eve,  with  her  body  white. 
Supple  and  smooth  to  her 


37 


Slim  finger  tips, 
Wondering,  listening, 
Eve  with  a  berry 
Half-way  to  her  lips. 

Oh  had  our  simple  Eve 
Seen  through  the  make-believe  ! 
Had  she  but  known  the 
Pretender  he  was  ! 
Out  of  the  boughs  he  came. 
Whispering  stUl  her  name, 
Tumbhng  in  twenty  rings 
Into  the  grass. 

Here  was  the  strangest  pair 
In  the  world  anywhere, 
Eve  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Kneeling,  and  he 
Telling  his  story  low  .  .  . 
Singing  birds  saw  them  go 
Down  the  dark  path  to 
The  blasphemous  Tree. 

Oh  what  a  clatter  when 
Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren 
Saw  him  successful  and 
Taking  his  leave  ! 
How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him  ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve  ! 

Picture  her  crying 
Outside  in  the  lane. 


38 


Eve,  with  no  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat. 
Haunting  the  gate  of  the 
Orchard  in  vain  .  .  . 
Picture  the  lewd  delight 
Under  the  hill  to-night — 
'  Eva  !  '  the  toast  goes  round, 
'  Eva  ! '  again. 

RALPH  HODGSON. 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  STORY 
AWAKES 

THE  light  of  dawn  rose  on  my  dreams 
And  from  afar  I  seemed  to  hear 
In  sleep  the  mellow  blackbird  call 
Hollow  and  sweet  and  clear. 

I  prythee,  Nurse,  my  casement  open. 
Wildly  the  garden  peals  with  singing. 

And  hooting  through  the  dewy  pines 
The  goblins  all  are  winging. 

O  listen  the  droning  of  the  bees. 

That  in  the  roses  take  delight  I 
And  see  a  cloud  stays  in  the  blue 

Like  an  angel  still  and  bright. 

The  gentle  sky  is  spread  like  silk. 

And,  Nurse,  the  moon  doth  languish  there. 

As  if  it  were  a  perfect  jewel 

In  the  morning's  soft-spun  hair. 

39 


The  greyness  of  the  distant  hills 

Is  silvered  in  the  lucid  East, 
See,  now  the  sheeny  plumed  cock 

Wags  haughtily  his  crest. 

'  O  come  you  out,  O  come  you  out, 

Lily,  and  lavender,  and  lime  ; 
The  kingcup  swings  his  golden  bell, 

And  plumpy  cherries  drum  the  time. 

*  O  come  you  out,  O  come  you  out, 
Roses,  and  dew,  and  mignonette  ; 

The  sun  is  in  the  steep  blue  sky. 
Sweetly  the  morning  star  is  set.' 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 


W 


THE  THIEF 

HEN  the  paths  of  dream  were  mist-mufiied. 
And  the  hours  were  dim  and  small 

(Through  still  nights  on  wet  orchard  grass 
Like  rain  the  apples  fall), 

Then  naked-footed,  secretly. 
The  thief  dropped  over  the  wall. 


Apple-boughs  spattered  mist  at  him. 
The  dawn  was  as  cold  as  death, 

With  a  stealthy  joy  at  the  heart  of  it. 
And  the  stir  of  a  small  sweet  breath, 

And  a  robin  breaking  his  heart  on  song 
As  a  young  child  sorroweth. 
40 


«YOU    BEES    WITH   THE    PLUSHY   AND 
PLAUSIBLE   NOSES' 


The  thief's  feet  bruised  wet  lavender 

Into  sweet  sharp  surprise  ; 
The  orchard,  full  of  pears  and  joy, 

Smiled  like  a  gold  sunrise  ; 
But  the  blind  house  stared  down  on  him 

With  strange,  white-lidded  eyes. 

He  stood  at  the  world's  secret  heart 

In  the  haze-wrapt  mystery  ; 
And  fat  pears,  mellow  on  the  lip. 

He  supped  like  a  honey-bee  ; 
But  the  apples  he  crunched  with  sharp  white  teeth 

Were  pungent,  like  the  sea. 

And  this  was  the  oldest  garden  joy. 

Living  and  young  and  sweet. 
And  the  melting  mists  took  radiance, 

And  the  silence  a  rhythmic  beat. 
For  the  day  came  stealing  stealthily, 

A  thief,  upon  furtive  feet. 

And  the  walls  that  ring  this  world  about 

Quivered  like  gossamer, 
Till  he  heard,  in  the  other  worlds  beyond, 

The  other  peoples  stir. 
And  met  strange,  sudden,  shifting  eyes 

Through  the  filmy  barrier.  .  ,  . 

ROSE  MACAULAY. 


41 


THE  TUFT  OF  FLOWERS 

WENT  to  turn  the  grass  once  after  one 
Who  mowed  it  in  the  dew  before  the  sun. 


The  dew  was  gone  that  made  his  blade  so  keen 
Before  I  came  to  view  the  levelled  scene. 

I  looked  for  him  behind  an  isle  of  trees  ; 
I  listened  for  his  whetstone  on  the  breeze. 

But  he  had  gone  his  way,  the  grass  all  mown, 
And  I  must  be,  as  he  had  been, — alone. 

'  As  all  must  be,'  I  said  within  my  heart, 
'  Whether  they  work  together  or  apart.' 

But  as  I  said  it,  swift  there  passed  me  by 
On  noiseless  wing  a  'wildered  butterfly. 

Seeking  with  memories  grown  dim  o'er  night 
Some  resting  flower  of  yesterday's  delight. 

And  once  I  marked  his  flight  go  round  and  round, 
As  where  some  flower  lay  withering  on  the  ground. 

And  then  he  flew  as  far  as  eye  could  see. 
And  then  on  tremulous  wing  came  back  to  me. 

I  thought  of  questions  that  have  no  reply. 
And  would  have  turned  to  toss  the  grass  to  dry  ; 

But  he  turned  first,  and  led  my  eye  to  look 
At  a  tall  tuft  of  flowers  beside  a  brook, 
42 


SWEET    LAVENDER 


/ 


A  leaping  tongue  of  bloom  the  scythe  had  spared 
Beside  a  reedy  brook  the  scythe  had  bared. 

I  left  my  place  to  know  them  by  their  name, 
Finding  them  butterfly  weed  when  I  came. 

The  mower  in  the  dew  had  loved  them  thus, 
By  leaving  them  to  flourish,  not  for  us, 

Nor  yet  to  draw  one  thought  of  ours  to  him. 
But  from  sheer  morning  gladness  at  the  brim. 

The  butterfly  and  I  had  lit  upon. 
Nevertheless,  a  message  from  the  dawn. 

That  made  me  hear  the  wakening  birds  around, 
And  hear  his  long  scythe  whispering  to  the  ground, 

And  feel  a  spirit  kindred  to  my  own  ; 

So  that  henceforth  I  worked  no  more  alone  ; 

But  glad  with  him,  I  worked  as  with  his  aid. 
And  weary,  sought  at  noon  with  him  the  shade ; 

And  dreaming,  as  it  were,  held  brotherly  speech 
With  one  whose  thought  I  had  not  hoped  to  reach. 

'  Men  work  together,'  I  told  him  from  my  heart, 
*  Whether  they  work  together  or  apart.' 

ROBERT  FROST. 


43 


N 


THE  PRIMROSE 

O  more,  from  now,  called  pale  and  wan. 
As  though  a  pitiful  weak  thing  : 

A  sickly  offspring  of  weak  Sun 
And  youngish  Spring. 

Thy  father's  golden  skin  is  thine, 

And  his  eye's  gleam  ;  but  his  bold  rays 

Are  tempered  by  thy  mother's  blood 
To  softer  ways. 

For  thou  hast  made  the  banks  ooze  gold. 
And  made  old  woods  their  darkness  break  , 

In  them  I  would  not  fall  at  night, 
Wert  thou  awake. 


Here  is  the  Primrose  family  : 

The  first  bom  is  full  blown  and  tall ; 
Two  in  half  bloom  just  reach  his  chin. 

Three  are  buds  small. 


Then,  since  the  first  bom  healthy  seems— 
No  drooping  one  I  've  chanced  upon — 

It  would  be  speaking  false  to  call 
Them  pale  and  wan. 

They  mean  the  Primrose  plucked  and  withered, 

Not  growing  in  his  golden  shine, 
Who  'd  prove  by  him  how  Phyllis  looks 

When  she  doth  pine. 
44 


BLACKTHORN    AND    A    BLUE    BUTTERFLY 


Indeed,  where  find  a  hardier  flower  ? 

Bom  when  the  Spring  wind  chilly  blows, 
Still  beautiful  in  Summer's  days — 

O  rare  Primrose  ! 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES. 


w 


TO  VIOLETS 

ELCOME,  maids  of  honour, 

You  do  bring 

In  the  spring. 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair  ; 

Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

You  're  the  maiden  posies. 

And  so  graced 

To  be  placed 
'Fore  damask  roses. 


Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By-and-by 

Ye  do  lie. 
Poor  girls,  neglected. 

HERRICK. 


45 


THE  HAWTHORN  HATH  A 
DEATHLY  SMELL' 


T 


HE  flowers  of  the  field 

Have  a  sweet  smell ; 
Meadowsweet,  tansy,  thyme. 

And  faint-heart  pimpernel ; 
But  sweeter  even  than  these. 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

An  apple,  a  child,  dust, 

When  falls  the  evening  rain, 
Wild  briar's  spiced  leaves. 

Breathe  memories  again  ; 
With  further  memory  fraught, 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

Eyes  of  all  loveliness — 

Shadow  of  strange  delight, 
Even  as  a  flower  fades 

Must  thou  from  sight ; 
But  oh,  o'er  thy  grave's  mound. 

Till  come  the  Judgment  Day, 
Wreathed  shall  with  incense  be 

Thy  sharp-thomed  may. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 


46 


WILD    VIOLETS 


v->  p% 


M 


H 


TO  DAFFODILS 

'AIR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay. 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  evensong  ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay. 
As  you  or  anything. 
We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew. 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


A  SONG  OF  APPLE-BLUTH 

AVE  you  ne'er  waked  in  the  grey  of  the  day-dawn 
Whitely  to  stand  at  the  window  scarce-seen. 
Over  the  garden  to  peer  in  the  May-dawn 
Past  to  the  fruit-close  whose  pale  boughs  not  green 

47 


Slowly  reveal  a  fresh  faintness  a-flutter 
White  to  the  young  grass  and  pink  to  the  sky  ? 
O,  then  a  low  call  to  waking  we  utter, 
*  Bluth,  lasses,  apple-bluth  spirts  low  and  high.' 

Out,  lasses,  out,  to  the  apple-garth  hasten — 
Nay,  never  tarry  to  net  your  glad  hair — 
Here  are  no  lovers  your  kissed  shoes  to  fasten 
(O,  for  the  days  when  girls'  feet  may  go  bare). 
Over  the  dim  lawn  the  May-rime  yet  lingers 
PaUid  and  dark  as  the  down  of  the  dawn — 
Gather  your  skirts  in  your  delicate  fingers. 
Stoop  as  you  run  o'er  the  almond-hung  lawn. 

Look  through  the  trees  ere  dawn's  twilight  is  over — 
Lo,  how  the  light  boughs  seem  lost  in  the  stars  ; 
Everywhere  bluth  the  grey  sky  seems  to  cover, 
Quivering  and  scented,  new  spring's  kisses'  scars. 
Wet  are  the  blossoms  to  wash  your  faint  faces — 
Bury  your  faces  cheek-deep  in  their  chill ; 
Press  the  flushed  petals  and  open  your  dresses, — 
So — let  them  trickle  your  young  breasts  to  thrill. 

Winter  has  wronged  us  of  sunlight  and  sweetness. 
We  who  so  soon  must  be  hid  from  the  sun  ; 
Winter  is  on  us  as  Summer's  completeness 
Faint-hearted  drops  down  a  tired  world  undone  ; 
Brief  is  the  bloom-time  as  sleepy  maids'  laughter 
WTio  know  not  one  bed-time  'tis  Summer's  last  day. 
Though  from  the  heart  of  the  rose  they  have  quaffed 

her — 
Come,  lasses,  come,  ere  our  rose-world  falls  grey. 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY. 


48 


THE    DUEL 


^ 


H'lraH^    '^  #  ' 

, 

Hk  '    J^  ^^^Cit            .f^^^y  ^-- 

'.^V 

P                      7^ 

^^L  ^ 

^  '    ^  ' 

w 


EVENING  PRIMROSE 

HEN  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west, 

And  dew-drops  pearl  the  Evening's  breast  ; 

Almost  as  pale  as  moonbeams  are, 

Or  its  companionable  star. 

The  Evening  Primrose  opes  anew 

Its  delicate  blossoms  to  the  dew  ; 

And  hermit-like,  shunning  the  light. 

Wastes  its  fair  bloom  upon  the  Night ; 

Who,  blindfold  to  its  fond  caresses. 

Knows  not  the  beauty  he  possesses. 

Thus  it  blooms  on  while  Night  is  by  ; 

When  Day  looks  out  with  open  eye, 

'Bashed  at  the  gaze  it  cannot  shun. 

It  faints,  and  withers,  and  is  gone. 

JOHN  CLARE. 


G 


ROSE  OF  SHARON 

O,  pretty  child,  and  bear  this  flower 
Unto  thy  little  Saviour  ; 
And  tell  him,  by  that  bud  now  blown. 
He  is  the  Rose  of  Sharon  known. 
When  thou  hast  said  so,  stick  it  there 
Upon  his  bib  or  stomacher  ; 
And  tell  him,  for  good  handsel  too. 
That  thou  hast  brought  a  whistle  new, 
Made  of  a  clean  straight  oaten  reed, 
To  charm  his  cries  at  time  of  need. 
Tell  him,  for  coral  thou  hast  none. 
But  if  thou  hadst,  he  should  have  one  ; 

49 


T 


But  poor  thou  art,  and  known  to  be 
Even  as  moneyless  as  he. 
Lastly,  if  thou  canst  win  a  kiss 
From  those  mellifluous  lips  of  his  ; 
Then  never  take  a  second  on, 
To  spoil  the  first  impression, 

HERRICK. 


BEANS  IN  BLOSSOM 

HE  south-west  wind  !   how  pleasant  in  the  face 
It  breathes  !   while;  sauntering  in  a  musing  pace, 
I  roam  these  new  ploughed  fields  ;   or  by  the  side 
Of  this  old  wood,  where  happy  birds  abide. 
And  the  rich  blackbird  through  his  golden  bill. 
Utters  wild  music  when  the  rest  are  still. 
Luscious  the  scent  comes  of  the  blossomed  bean, 
As  o'er  the  path  in  rich  disorder  lean 
Its  stalks  ;  whence  bees,  in  busy  rows  and  toils. 
Load  home  luxuriantly  their  yellow  spoils. 
The  herd-cows  toss  the  molehills  in  their  play  ; 
And  often  stand  the  stranger's  steps  at  bay. 
Mid  clover  blossoms  red  and  tawny  white. 
Strong  scented  with  the  summer's  warm  delight. 

JOHN  CLARE. 


T 


THE  WOOD-SPURGE 

HE  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still. 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill  : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

50 


ROSE    OF    APRIL 


Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas  ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon  ; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun. 

The  wood-spurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me, — 
The  wood-spurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 

ROSSETTI. 


A 


THE  SUN-FLOWER 

H,  Sun-flower  !   weary  of  time, 
Wlio  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun  ; 


-*■    -^-Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime. 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done  ; 

Where  the  Youth  pined  away  with  desire, 
And  the  pale  Virgin  shrouded  in  snow. 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  Sun-flower  wishes  to  go. 


BLAKE. 


51 


THE  POPPY 

TO  MONICA 

SUMMER  set  lip  to  earth's  bosom  bare, 
And  left  the  flushed  print  in  a  poppy  there  : 
Like  a  yawn  of  fire  from  the  grass  it  came, 
And  the  fanning  wind  puffed  it  to  flapping  flame. 


With  burnt  mouth,  red  like  a  lion's,  it  drank 
The  blood  of  the  sun  as  he  slaughtered  sank, 
And  dipped  its  cup  in  the  purpurate  shine 
Wlien  the  eastern  conduits  ran  with  wine. 

Till  it  grew  lethargied  with  fierce  bliss, 
And  hot  as  a  swinked  gipsy  is, 
And  drowsed  in  sleepy  savageries. 
With  mouth  wide  a-pout  for  a  sultry  kiss. 

A  child  and  man  paced  side  by  side. 
Treading  the  skirts  of  eventide  ; 
But  between  the  clasp  of  his  hand  and  hers 
Lay,  felt  not,  twenty  withered  years. 

She  turned,  with  the  rout  of  her  dusk  South  hair, 
And  saw  the  sleeping  gipsy  there  ; 
And  snatched  and  snapped  it  in  swift  child's  whim. 
With — '  Keep  it,  long  as  you  live  !  ' — to  him. 

And  his  smile,  as  nymphs  from  their  laving  meres. 
Trembled  up  from  a  bath  of  tears  ; 
And  joy,  like  a  mew  sea-rocked  apart. 
Tossed  on  the  waves  of  his  troubled  heart. 
52 


For  he  saw  what  she  did  not  see. 
That — as  kindled  by  its  own  fervency — 
The  verge  shrivelled  inward  smoulderingly  : 
And  suddenly  'twixt  his  hand  and  hers 
He  knew  the  twenty  withered  years — 
No  flower,  but  twenty  shrivelled  years. 

'  Was  never  such  thing  until  this  hour,' 
Low  to  his  heart  he  said  ;   '  the  flower 
Of  sleep  brings  wakening  to  me. 
And  of  oblivion  memory.' 

'  Was  never  this  thing  to  me,'  he  said, 

'  Though  with  bruised  poppies  my  feet  are  red  ! 

And  again  to  his  own  heart  very  low  : 

'  O  child  !  I  love,  for  I  love  and  know  ; 

'  But  you,  who  love  nor  know  at  all 
The  diverse  chambers  in  Love's  guest-hall. 
Where  some  rise  early,  few  sit  long  : 
In  how  different  accents  hear  the  throng 
His  great  Pentecostal  tongue  ; 

'  Who  know  not  love  from  amity, 

Nor  my  reported  self  from  me  ; 

A  fair  fit  gift  is  this,  meseems, 

You  give — this  withering  flower  of  dreams. 

'  O  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true, 
Do  you  know  what  the  days  will  do  to  you  ? 
To  your  love  and  you  what  the  days  will  do, 
O  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true  ? 

53 


'  You  have  loved  me,  Fair,  three  Uves — or  days  : 
'Twill  pass  with  the  passing  of  my  face. 
But  where  /  go  your  face  goes  too, 
To  watch  lest  I  play  false  to  you. 

'  I  am  but,  my  sweet,  your  foster-lover. 
Knowing  well  when  certain  years  are  over 
You  vanish  from  me  to  another  ; 
Yet  I  know,  and  love,  like  the  foster-mother, 

'  So,  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true  ! 
For  my  brief  life-while  I  take  from  you 
This  token,  fair  and  fit,  meseems, 
For  me — this  withering  flower  of  dreams.' 

The  sleep-flower  sways  in  the  wheat  its  head. 
Heavy  with  dreams,  as  that  with  bread  : 
The  goodly  grain  and  the  sun-flushed  sleeper 
The  reaper  reaps,  and  Time  the  reaper. 

I  hang  'mid  men  my  needless  head. 
And  my  fruit  is  dreams,  as  theirs  is  bread  : 
The  goodly  men  and  the  sun-hazed  sleeper 
Time  shall  reap,  but  after  the  reaper 
The  world  shall  glean  of  me,  the  sleeper. 

Love,  love  !  your  flower  of  withered  dream 
In  leaved  rhyme  lies  safe,  I  deem. 
Sheltered  and  shut  in  a  nook  of  rh3Tne, 
From  the  reaper  man,  and  his  reaper  Time. 

Love  !  /  fall  into  the  claws  of  Time  : 

But  lasts  within  a  leaved  rhyme 

All  that  the  world  of  me  esteems — 

My  withered  dreams,  my  withered  dreams. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 

54 


DAISIES    AND    DELPHINIUMS 


A 


THE  DAISY 

KNOW  not  why  thy  beauty  should 
Remind  me  of  the  cold,  dark  grave — 

Thou  Flower,  as  fair  as  Moonlight,  when 
She  kissed  the  mouth  of  a  black  Cave. 

All  other  Flowers  can  coax  the  Bees, 
All  other  Flowers  are  sought  but  thee  : 

Dost  thou  remind  them  all  of  Death, 
Sweet  Flower,  as  thou  remindest  me  ? 

Thou  seemest  like  a  blessed  ghost, 

So  white,  so  cold,  though  crowned  with  gold  ; 
Among  these  glazed  Buttercups, 

And  purple  Thistles,  rough  and  bold. 

When  I  am  dead,  nor  thought  of  more. 

Out  of  all  human  memory — 
Grow  you  on  my  forsaken  grave, 

And  win  for  me  a  stranger's  sigh. 

A  day  or  two  the  lilies  fade  ; 

A  month,  ay  less,  no  friends  are  seen  : 
Then,  claimant  to  forgotten  graves. 

Share  my  lost  place  with  the  wild  green. 

WILLIAM  H.   DAVIES. 


A  WIDOW'S  WEEDS 

POOR  old  Widow  in  her  weeds 
Sowed  her  garden  with  wild-flower  seeds  ; 
Not  too  shallow,  and  not  too  deep. 
And  down  came  April — drip — drip — drip. 

55 


Up  shone  May,  like  gold,  and  soon 

Green  as  an  arbour  grew  leafy  June. 

And  now  all  summer  she  sits  and  sews 

Where  willow  herb,  comfrey,  bugloss  blows, 

Teasle  and  tansy,  meadowsweet, 

Campion,  toadflax,  and  rough  hawksbit ; 

Brown  bee  orchis,  and  Peals  of  Bells  ; 

Clover,  bumet,  and  thyme  she  smells  ; 

Like  Oberon's  meadows  her  garden  is 

Drowsy  from  dawn  till  dusk  with  bees. 

Weeps  she  never,  but  sometimes  sighs, 

And  peeps  at  her  garden  with  bright  brown  eyes  ; 

And  all  she  has  is  all  she  needs — 

A  poor  old  Widow  in  her  weeds. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 


THE  GARDEN  IN  SEPTEMBER 


N 


OW  thin  mists  temper  the  slow-ripening  beams 

Of  the  September  sun  :  his  golden  gleams 

On  gaudy  flowers  shine,  that  prank  the  rows 

Of  high-grown  hollyhocks,  and  all  tall  shows 

That  Autumn  flaunteth  in  his  bushy  bowers  ; 

Where  tomtits  hanging  from  the  drooping  heads 

Of  giant  sun-flowers,  peck  the  nutty  seeds  ; 

And  in  the  feathery  aster  bees  on  wing 

Seize  and  set  free  the  honied  flowers, 

Till  thousand  stars  leap  with  their  visiting  : 

While  ever  across  the  path  mazily  flit, 

Unpiloted  in  the  sun, 

The  dreamy  butterflies 

With  dazzling  colours  powdered  and  soft  glooms, 

56 


TOAD-FLAX 


■A 


White,  black  and  crimson  stripes,  and  peacock  eyes, 

Or  on  chance  flowers  sit. 

With  idle  effort  plundering  one  by  one 

The  nectaries  of  deepest  throated  blooms. 

With  gentle  flaws  the  western  breeze 
Into  the  garden  saileth. 

Scarce  here  and  there  stirring  the  single  trees. 
For  his  sharpness  he  vaileth  : 
So  long  a  comrade  of  the  bearded  corn. 
Now  from  the  stubbles  whence  the  shocks  are  borne. 
O'er  dewy  lawns  he  turns  to  stray. 
As  mindful  of  the  kisses  and  soft  play 
WTierewith  he  enamoured  the  light-hearted  May, 
Ere  he  deserted  her  ; 
Lover  of  fragrance,  and  too  late  repents  ; 
Nor  more  of  heavy  hyacinth  now  may  drink, 
Nor  spicy  pink. 

Nor  Summer's  rose,  nor  garnered  lavender. 
But  the  few  lingering  scents 
Of  streaked  pea,  and  gillyflower,  and  stocks 
Of  courtly  purple,  and  aromatic  phlox. 

And  at  all  times  to  hear  are  drowsy  tones 
Of  dizzy  flies,  and  humming  drones, 
With  sudden  flap  of  pigeon  wings  in  the  sky. 
Or  the  wild  cry 

Of  thirsty  rooks,  that  scour  ascare 
The  distant  blue,  to  watering  as  they  fare 
With  creaking  pinions,  or — on  business  bent, 
If  aught  their  ancient  polity  displease — 
Come  gathering  to  their  colony,  and  there 
Settling  in  ragged  parliament. 
Some  stormy  council  hold  in  the  high  trees. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 

57 


B 


SEA-COUNTRY 

ID  me  by  poppied  fields  again, 
Drift-campion  and  the  seeded  snow 
In  wealden  hollows  lulled  and  lain 
From  the  wind's  torment  let  me  go  ; 

Came  ever  inland  peace  so  near 
These  storm-ports  of  the  watery  globe  ? 
Here  is  the  salt-sown  pine  and  here 
The  snake-stems  wear  a  whispering  robe. 

These  coverts,  paved  with  rushy  green, 
Were  planted  for  the  turtle's  bower. 
And  faintly  hums  the  breeze  between 
Crab-orchard  and  sea-pasturing  flower  : 

Here,  in  his  twisted  arbour-pale, 
The  marsh-bird  warbles,  as  the  sea 
Had  lent  his  voice  a  sail. 
And  wave-drops  for  fresh  melody. 

'Tis  the  lark's  race  ;  did  he  not  win 
The  rippling  steps  of  music's  throne, 
How  clear,  the  dancing  wave  within. 
Were  heard,  how  many  a  voice  less  known 


How  many  a  voice,  ere  this  one  slake 
His  thirst  with  cup  that  music  yields. 
And  on  the  desert  silence  break, 
And  not  these  fields,  and  not  these  fields. 

VIVIAN  LOCKE  ELLIS. 

58 


ALLONGIA 


t 


T 


THE  BLUEBELL 

HE  Bluebell  is  the  sweetest  flower 
That  waves  in  summer  air  : 

Its  blossoms  have  the  mightiest  power 
To  soothe  my  spirit's  care. 


There  is  a  spell  in  purple  heath 

Too  wildly,  sadly  dear  ; 
The  violet  has  a  fragrant  breath. 

But  fragrance  will  not  cheer. 

The  trees  are  bare,  the  sun  is  cold. 

And  seldom,  seldom  seen  ; 
The  heavens  have  lost  their  zone  of  gold 

And  earth  her  robe  of  green. 

And  ice  upon  the  glancing  stream 

Has  cast  its  sombre  shade  ; 
And  distant  hills  and  valleys  seem 

In  frozen  mist  arrayed. 

The  Bluebell  cannot  charm  me  now. 
The  heath  has  lost  its  bloom  ; 

The  violets  in  the  glen  below. 
They  yield  no  sweet  perfume. 

But,  though  I  mourn  the  sweet  Bluebell, 

'Tis  better  far  away  ; 
I  know  how  fast  my  tears  would  swell 

To  see  it  smile  to-day. 

59 


For,  oh  !   when  chill  the  sunbeams  fall 

Adown  that  dreary  sky, 
And  gild  yon  dank  and  darkened  wall 

With  transient  brilliancy, 

How  do  I  weep,  how  do  I  pine 

For  the  time  of  flowers  to  come. 
And  turn  me  from  that  fading  shine. 

To  mourn  the  fields  of  home  ! 

EMILY  BRONTE. 


D 


THE  LILAC 

EAR  lilac-tree,  a-spreaden  wide 
Thy  purple  blooth  on  ev'ry  zide. 
As  if  the  hollow  sky  did  shed 
Its  blue  upon  thy  fiow'ry  head  ; 
Oh  !   whether  I  mid  sheare  wi'  thee 
Thy  open  air,  my  bloomen  tree. 
Or  zee  thy  blossoms  vrom  the  gloom, 
Tthin  my  zunless  worken-room. 
My  heart  do  leap,  but  leap  wi'  sighs. 
At  zight  o'  thee  avore  my  eyes, 
For  when  thy  grey-blue  head  do  sway 
In  cloudless  light,  'tis  Spring,  'tis  May. 

'Tis  Spring,  'tis  May,  as  May  woonce  shed 
His  glowen  light  above  my  head — 
When  thy  green  boughs,  wi'  bloomy  tips, 
Did  sheade  my  childem's  laughen  lips  ; 
A  screenen  vrom  the  noonday  gleare 
Their  rwosy  cheaks  an'  glossy  heair  ; 
The  while  their  mother's  needle  sped. 
Too  quick  vor  zight,  the  snow-white  thread, 
60 


w 


Unless  her  han',  wi'  lov^n  ceare, 

Did  smoothe  their  little  heads  o'  heair  ; 

Or  wi'  a  sheake,  tie  up  anew 

Vor  zome  wild  voot,  a  slipp^n  shoe  ; 

An'  I  did  lean  bezide  thy  mound, 

Agean  the  deasy-dappled  ground, 

The  while  the  woaken  clock  did  tick 

My  hour  o'  rest  away  too  quick, 

An'  call  me  off  to  work  anew, 

Wi'  slowly-ringen  strokes,  woone,  two. 

Zoo  let  me  zee  noo  darksome  cloud 
Bedim  to-day  thy  flow'ry  sh'oud. 
But  let  en  bloom  on  ev'ry  spray, 
Drough  all  the  days  o'  zunny  May. 

WILLIAM  BARNES. 


THE  MOSS-ROSE 

ALKING  to-day  in  your  garden,  O  gracious  lady. 
Little  you  thought  as  you  turned  in  that  alley 

remote  and  shady. 
And  gave  me  a  rose  and  asked  if  I  knew  its  savour — 
The  old-world  scent  of  the  moss-rose,  flower  of  a 

bygone  favour — 

Little  you  thought  as  you  waited  the  word  of 
appraisement. 

Laughing  at  first  and  then  amazed  at  my  amaze- 
ment. 

That  the  rose  you  gave  was  a  gift  already  cherished. 

And  the  garden  whence  you  plucked  it  a  garden  long 
perished. 
1  6i 


But  I — I  saw  that  garden,  with  its  one  treasure 
The  tiny  moss-rose,  tiny  even  by  childhood's  measure, 
And  the  long  morning  shadow  of  the  dusty  laurel. 
And  a  boy  and  a  girl  beneath  it,  flushed  with  a  childish 
quarrel. 

She  wept  for  one  little  bud  :   but  he,  outreaching 

The  hand  of  brotherly  right,  would  take  it  for  all  her 

beseeching  : 
And   she    flung   her   arms    about  him,   and  gave  like   a 

sister, 
And  laughed  at  her  own  tears,  and  wept  again  when  he 

kissed  her. 

So  the  rose  is  mine  long  since,  and  whenever  I  find  it 
And   drink    again    the    sharp   sweet   scent  of    the  moss 

behind  it, 
I  remember  the  tears  of  a  child,  and  her  love  and  her 

laughter. 
And  the  morning  shadows  of  youth  and  the  night  that 

fell  thereafter. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


A 


SONNET 

ROSE  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North, 
Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone  ; 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 
Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  never  known  : 
The  maidens  danc'd  about  it  mom  and  noon, 
And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made  ; 
62 


ROSES    OF    THE    TWILIGHT 


The  nimble  fairies  by  the  pale-faced  moon 
Water'd  the  root  and  kiss'd  her  pretty  shade. 
But  well-a-day  the  gardener  careless  grew  ; 
The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 
Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 

God  shield  the  stock !  if  heaven  send  no  supplies, 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 


THE  DESERTED  GARDEN 


I 


MIND  me  in  the  days  departed, 
How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanished  quite  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  had  struck  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid, 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  called  the  place  my  wilderness, 
For  no  one  entered  there  but  I  ; 
The  sheep  looked  in,  the  grass  to  espy, 
And  passed  it  ne'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out. 
But  not  a  happy  child. 

63 


Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar  tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen- white, 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light 
And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago  it  might  befall, 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all. 

Some  lady,  stately  overmuch. 
Here  moving  with  a  silken  noise. 
Has  blushed  beside  them  at  the  voice 
That  hkened  her  to  such. 

And  these,  to  make  a  diadem. 
She  often  may  have  plucked  and  twined, 
Half  smiling  as  it  came  to  mind 
That  few  would  look  at  them. 

Oh,  little  thought  that  lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose. 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows. 
And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! — 

Nor  thought  that  gardener  (full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearned  and  simple  phrase), 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise 
By  creeping  through  the  thorns  ! 
64 


*  MOORLAND ' 


ii 


To  me  upon  my  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed  : 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 
The  blither  place  for  me  ! 

Friends,  blame  me  not !   a  narrow  ken 
Has  childhood  'twixt  the  sun  and  sward 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward — 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall ; 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white  ; 
How  should  I  know  but  roses  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  my  hermit  home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, — 
And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought,  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  '  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale,' 
And  Angelina  too. 


65 


For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories  ;  till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees, — 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees, — nor  feel  that  childish  heart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted, 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round  :   anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are  ; 
No  more  for  me  ! — myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Ah  me,  ah  me  !   when  erst  I  lay 
In  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I  laughed  unto  myself  and  thought 
'  The  time  will  pass  away.' 

And  still  I  laughed,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  past  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away, 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  waU, 
Dear  God,  how  seldom,  if  at  all, 
Did  I  look  up  to  pray  ! 
66 


The  time  is  past ; — and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees, 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 
As  well  as  the  white  rose, — 

When  graver,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face. 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 
The  colour  draws  from  heaven, — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain. 
But  more  for  Heavenly  promise  free. 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 


IN  YON  GARDEN 

N  yon  garden  fine  and  gay. 
Picking  lilies  a'  the  day, 
•Gathering  flowers  o'  ilka  hue, 
I  wistna  then  what  love  could  do. 

Where  love  is  planted  there  it  grows  ; 
It  buds  and  blooms  like  any  rose  ; 
It  has  a  sweet  and  pleasant  smell ; 
No  flower  on  earth  can  it  excel. 

I  put  my  hand  into  the  bush. 

And  thought  the  sweetest  rose  to  find  ; 
But  pricked  my  finger  to  the  bone, 

And  left  the  sweetest  rose  behind. 

ANON. 
67 


T 


OPHELIA 

HERE  runs  a  crisscross  pattern  of  small  leaves 

Espalier,  in  a  fading  summer  air, 

And  there  Ophelia  walks,  an  azure  flower, 

Whom  wind,  and  snowflakes,  and  the  sudden  rain 

Of  love's  wild  skies  have  purified  to  heav'n. 

There  is  a  beauty  past  all  weeping  now 

In  that  sweet  crooked  mouth,  that  vacant  smUe  ; 

Only  a  lonely  grey  in  those  mad  eyes. 

Which  never  on  earth  shall  leam  their  loneliness. 

And  when  'mid  startled  birds  she  sings  lament, 

Mocking  in  hope  the  long  voice  of  the  stream. 

It  seems  her  heart's  lute  hath  a  broken  string. 

Ivy  she  hath,  that  to  old  ruin  clings  ; 

And  rosemary,  that  sees  remembrance  fade  ; 

And  pansies,  deeper  than  the  gloom  of  dreams  ; 

But  ah  !  if  utterable,  would  this  earth 

Remain  the  base,  unreal  thing  it  is  ? 

Better  be  out  of  sight  of  peering  eyes  ; 

Out — out  of  hearing  of  all  useless  words. 

Spoken  of  tedious  tongues  in  heedless  ears ! 

And  lest,  at  last,  the  world  should  leam  heart-secrets 

Lest  that  sweet  wolf  from  some  dim  thicket  steal ; 

Better  the  glassy  horror  of  the  stream  ! 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE 

I  WENT  to  the  Garden  of  Love, 
And  saw  what  I  never  had  seen  : 
A  chapel  was  built  in  the  midst. 
Where  I  used  to  play  on  the  green. 
68 


And  the  gates  of  this  Chapel  were  shut, 
And  '  Thou  shalt  not '  writ  over  the  door  ; 
So  I  turn'd  to  the  Garden  of  Love 
That  so  many  sweet  flowers  bore  ; 

And  I  saw  it  was  filled  with  graves. 

And  tombstones  where  flowers  should  be  ; 

And  priests  in  black  gowns  were  walking  their  rounds. 

And  binding  with  briars  my  joys  and  desires. 

BLAKE. 


MY  LOVE  BUILT  ME  A  BONNIE 
BOWER 


M 


Y  love  built  me  a  bonnie  bower, 
And  clad  it  a'  wi'  lily  flower ; 
A  brawer  bower  ye  ne'er  did  see. 
Than  my  true  lover  built  for  me. 

There  cam  a  man  at  midday  hour, 
He  heard  my  song  and  he  saw  my  bower, 
And  he  brocht  armed  men  that  nicht 
And  brak  my  bower  and  slew  my  knicht. 

He  slew  my  knicht,  to  me  sae  dear. 
And  burnt  my  bower,  and  drave  my  gear  ; 
My  servants  a'  for  life  did  flee. 
And  left  me  in  extremitie. 

I  sew'd  his  sheet  and  made  my  mane, 
I  watch'd  his  corpse,  myself  alane  ; 
I  watch'd  by  nicht  and  I  watch'd  by  day. 
No  living  creature  cam  that  way. 

69 


I  bore  his  body  on  my  back, 
And  whyles  I  went,  and  whyles  I  sat ; 
I  digg'd  a  grave  and  laid  him  in, 
And  happ'd  him  wi'  the  sod  sae  green. 

But  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  I  laid  the  moul'  on  his  yellow  hair  ? 
Oh,  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  wae, 
When  I  tum'd  about  awa'  to  gae  ? 

The  man  lives  not  I  '11  love  again. 
Since  that  my  comely  knicht  is  slain  ; 
Wi'  ae  lock  of  his  yellow  hair 
I  'U  bind  my  heart  for  evermair. 

ANON. 


FINE  FLOWERS  IN  THE  VALLEY 

SHE  sat  down  below  a  thorn. 
Fine  flowers  in  the  valley  ; 
And  there  she  has  her  sweet  babe  bom. 
And  the  green  leaves  they  grow  rarely. 

'  Smile  na  sae  sweet,  my  bonny  babe. 

An  ye  smile  sae  sweet,  ye  'U  smile  me  dead.' 

She  's  ta'en  out  her  little  penknife, 
And  twinned  the  sweet  babe  o'  its  life. 

She  's  howket  a  grave  by  the  light  o'  the  moon. 
And  there  she  's  buried  her  sweet  babe  in. 

70 


As  she  was  going  to  the  church, 
She  saw  a  sweet  babe  in  the  porch. 

'  O  sweet  babe,  if  thou  wert  mine, 
I  wad  deed  thee  in  silk  and  sabelline.' 

'  O  mother  mine,  when  I  was  thine, 
You  didna  prove  to  me  sae  kind. 

*  But  now  I  'm  in  the  heavens  hie, 

Fine  flowers  in  the  valley  ; 
And  ye  have  the  pains  o'  hell  to  dree, 

And  the  green  leaves  they  grow  rarely.' 

ANON. 


w 


A  LATE  WALK 

HEN  I  go  up  through  the  mowing  field, 

The  headless  aftermath. 
Smooth-laid  like  thatch  with  the  heavy  dew, 

Half  closes  the  garden  path. 

And  when  I  come  to  the  garden  ground, 

The  whirr  of  sober  birds 
Up  from  the  tangle  of  withered  weeds 

Is  sadder  than  any  words. 

A  tree  beside  the  wall  stands  bare. 

But  a  leaf  that  lingered  brown. 
Disturbed,  no  doubt,  by  my  thought, 

Comes  softly  rattling  down. 


I  end  not  far  from  my  going  forth 

By  picking  the  faded  bhie 
Of  the  last  remaining  aster  flower 

To  carry  again  to  you. 

ROBERT  FROST. 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER 

THE  Dandelion  sails  away, — 
Some  other  port  for  him  next  spring  ; 
Since  they  have  seen  the  harvest  home. 
Sweet  birds  have  little  more  to  sing. 

Since  from  her  side  the  com  is  ta'en, 
The  Poppy  thought  to  win  some  praise  ; 

But  birds  sang  ne'er  a  welcome  note. 
So  she  blushed  scarlet  all  her  days. 

Tlie  children  strip  the  blackberry  bush, 
And  search  the  hedge  for  bitter  sloe  ; 

They  bite  the  sloes,  now  sweet  as  plums — 
After  Jack  Frost  has  bit  them  so. 

'Twas  this  Jack  Frost,  one  week  ago. 

Made  watch-dogs  whine  with  fear  and  cold 

But  all  he  did  was  make  fruits  smell, 
And  make  their  coats  to  shine  like  gold. 

No  scattering  force  is  in  the  wind, 

Though  strong  to  shake  the  leaf  from  stem 
The  leaves  get  in  the  rill's  sweet  throat, 

His  voice  is  scarcely  heard  through  them. 


The  darkest  woods  let  in  the  Hght, 
And  thin  and  frail  are  looking  now  ; 

And  yet  their  weight  is  more  than  June's, 
Since  nuts  bend  down  each  hazel  bough. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES. 


o 


THE  ARBOUR 

THE  tap-room  in  the  Winter 

When  the  ground  is  white  with  snow, 
But  the  arbour  in  the  Summer 

When  the  honeysuckles  blow  ! 
So,  landlord,  ice  the  cider. 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer  ; 
And  we  '11  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here  ! 

O  a  nightingale  is  singing 

In  the  lilac  on  the  lawn, 
And  we  '11  join  him  in  his  chorus 

Till  the  day  begins  to  dawn  ! 
So,  landlord,  ice  the  cider. 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer  ; 
And  we  '11  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here  ! 

O  the  moon  lights  up  the  lilies 

Through  the  blossoms  on  the  lime  ; 
But  the  rising  sun  is  better 

For  a  clock  for  closing  time  ! 
So,  landlord,  ice  the  cider, 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer  ; 
And  we  '11  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here  ! 

CHARLES  DALMON. 


ANOTHER  SPRING 

F  I  might  see  another  Spring 

I  'd  not  plant  summer  flowers  and  wait : 
I  'd  have  my  crocuses  at  once, 
My  leafless  pink  mezereons. 

My  chill-veined  snowdrops,  choicer  yet 

My  white  or  azure  violet, 
Leaf-nested  primrose  ;  anything 

To  blow  at  once  not  late. 

If  I  might  see  another  Spring 

I  'd  listen  to  the  daylight  birds 
That  build  their  nests  and  pair  and  sing. 
Nor  wait  for  mateless  nightingale  ; 

I  'd  listen  to  the  lusty  herds, 

The  ewes  with  lambs  as  white  as  snow, 
I  'd  find  out  music  in  the  hail 

And  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

If  I  might  see  another  Spring — 

Oh  stinging  comment  on  my  past 
That  all  my  past  results  in  '  If ' — 

If  I  might  see  another  Spring 
I  'd  laugh  to-day,  to-day  is  brief  ; 
I  would  not  wait  for  anything  : 

I  'd  use  to-day  that  cannot  last. 

Be  glad  to-day  and  sing. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


74 


HONEYSUCKLE 


THE  CRAB  AND  MAPLE  TREES 
IN  MILFIELD 


T 


HE  cheerefull  byrde  that  skips  from  tree  to  tree, 
By  skilful!  choyse  doth  roust  and  rest  at  night : 
Although  by  wing  and  will  he  may  go  free. 
Yet  there  he  pearkes,  where  most  he  takes  delight. 
As  Thrush  in  thome,  and  golden  Finch  in  Feame, 
Great  byrds  in  groves,  the  smale  in  bushie  hedge  : 
The  Larke  alowe,  in  loftie  tree  the  Heame, 
And  some  in  Fenne,  doe  shrowde  themselves  in 

sedge. 
So  some  men  bost  in  Bayes,  whose  branch  they 

beare, 
Some  Hawthorne  hold,  as  chiefe  of  their  delight : 
Some  wofuU  wightes,  the  wrethed  Willows  weare. 
Some  Roses  reach,  and  some  the  LyUies  white. 
Some  Plane  tree  praise,  as  great  Darius  sonne. 
Whose  oft  recourse  thereto  doth  well  expresse, 
That  vertues  rise  therin  this  Prince  had  wonne. 
To  like  the  same  above  the  rest  I  gesse. 
The  Oliander  eke,  whose  Roselike  fioure, 
Faire  Polixene  so  passing  well  did  please  : 
Some  lift  aloft,  and  some  the  Pien  pure. 
Yet  trees  I  know  that  farre  surmounteth  these. 
Not  for  their  daintie  fruites,  or  odoures  sweete, 
Ne  yet  for  sumptuous  shewe  that  others  yeelde  : 
But  for  the  Ladies  sakes,  which  there  did  meete, 
I  give  them  prayse  as  chiefest  in  the  fielde. 
O  happy  trees,  O  happy  boughes,  whose  shade 
Ishrouded  hath  such  Noble  vertuous  wightes  : 
By  whom  you  were,  and  are  a  Mirror  made, 
Who  of  your  selves  doe  yeelde  no  great  delightes. 

75 


O  fertyle  ground,  in  yeelding  wise  tliat  lends 
Such  causes  greate  of  Ladies  perfite  joyes, 
O  blissefull  place  so  fit  for  faithfuU  friends, 
In  pleasures  ryse,  to  rid  them  from  anoyes. 
What  wonder  may  it  be,  to  those  shall  heare. 
In  Maple  hard,  or  crooked  Crabbe  tree  sowre  : 
Such  sugred  talke,  such  jests,  such  joyful!  cheare, 
Such  mylde  affects,  as  if  'twere  Cupids  bowre  ? 
Now  sith  these  Noble  Nimphes  ybreathed  have, 
Upon  these  plants,  in  uttering  forth  their  minde  : 
If  any  seeke  their  secrecie  to  crave, 
High  Jove  I  pray  these  trees  may  shew  their  kinde. 
Help  Satyrs  eke,  you  Gods  that  keepe  the  wood. 
The  poysoning  breath  of  Boreas  rough  resist  : 
And  thou  whose  sylver  drops  bedewes  eche  bud. 
Refresh  these  trees  with  sweete  Auroraes  mist. 
And  Jove  if  thou  in  Milfeelde  shew  thy  might. 
Convert  them  soone,  to  fruites  of  more  delight. 

That  Maple  may  be  Mulberie, 

And  Crabbe  tree  eke  a  Medler  be. 

THOMAS  HOWELL 


UPON  THE  PRIORY  GROVE 

HIS  USUAL  RETIREMENT 


H 


AIL,  sacred  shades  !   cool  leafy  house  ! 
Chaste  treasurer  of  all  my  vows 
And  wealth  !   on  whose  soft  bosom  laid 
My  love's  fair  steps  I  first  betrayed  : 
Henceforth  no  melancholy  flight. 
No  sad  wing,  or  hoarse  bird  of  Night, 
Disturb  this  air,  no  fatal  throat 
76 


Of  raven,  or  owl,  awake  the  note 
Of  our  laid  echo,  no  voice  dwell 
Within  these  leaves  but  Philomel. 
The  poisonous  Wy  here  no  more 
Her  false  twists  on  the  oak  shall  score  ; 
Only  the  woodbine  here  may  twine, 
As  th'  emblem  of  her  love,  and  mine  ; 
The  amorous  sun  shall  here  convey 
His  best  beams  in  thy  shade  to  play  ; 
The  active  air,  the  gentlest  showers 
Shall  from  his  wings  rain  on  thy  flowers  ; 
And  the  moon  from  her  dewy  locks. 
Shall  deck  thee  with  her  brightest  drops  : 
WTiatever  can  a  fancy  move. 
Or  feed  the  eye  :   be  on  this  grove. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  winds  and  tears 
Of  Heaven,  with  the  consuming  years, 
Shall  these  green  curls  bring  to  decay, 
And  clothe  thee  in  an  aged  grey  : — 
If  aught  a  lover  can  foresee  : 
Or  if  we  poets  prophets  be — 
From  hence  transplanted,  thou  shalt  stand 
A  fresh  grove  in  th'  Elysian  land  ; 
Where — most  blest  pair  ! — as  here  on  Earth 
Thou  first  didst  eye  our  growth,  and  birth  ; 
So  there  again,  thou  'It  see  us  move 
In  our  first  innocence  and  love  ; 
And  in  thy  shades,  as  now,  so  then, 
We  '11  kiss,  and  smile,  and  walk  again. 

HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


77 


THE  ATTENDANT  SPIRIT  IN 
'COMUS'  EPILOGUISES 

TO  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  chmes  that  he 
Wliere  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air. 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring  : 
The  Graces  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring. 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells  ; 
And  west  winds  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard,  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew, 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses. 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound, 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen. 
But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen. 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche,  sweet  entranced 
78 


GRASS    OF    PARNASSUS 


y 


II 


i 


A 


After  her  wandering  labours  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride  ; 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  bom. 
Youth  and  Joy  ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend  ; 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  comers  of  the  moon. 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime  ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


SONG 

SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks  ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

79 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death  ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves. 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  ; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


D 


CANDLEMAS  EVE 

OWN  with  the  rosemary  and  bays, 
Down  with  the  mistletoe  ; 

Instead  of  holly,  now  upraise 
The  greener  box,  for  show. 


The  holly  hitherto  did  sway  ; 

Let  box  now  domineer 
Until  the  dancing  Easter  Day 

Or  Easter's  eve  appear. 

Then  youthful  box,  which  now  hath  grace 

Your  houses  to  renew, 
Grown  old,  surrender  must  his  place 

Unto  the  crisped  yew. 
80 


OCTOBER    ROSES 


WTien  yew  is  out,  then  birch  comes  in, 

And  many  flowers  beside. 
Both  of  a  fresh  and  fragrant  kin, 

To  honour  Whitsuntide. 


Green  rushes  then,  and  sweetest  bents. 

With  cooler  oaken  boughs. 
Come  in  for  comely  ornaments. 

To  re-adorn  the  house. 
Thus  times  do  shift,  each  thing  his  turn  does  hold 
New  things  succeed,  as  former  things  grow  old. 

HERRICK. 


w 


EAGER  SPRING 

HIRL,  snow,  on  the  blackbird's  chatter  ; 

You  will  not  hinder  his  song  to  come. 

East  wind,  sleepless,  you  cannot  scatter 

Quince-bud,  almond-bud. 

Little  grape-hyacinth's 

Clustering  brood. 

Nor  unfurl  the  tips  of  the  plum. 

No  half-bom  stalk  of  a  lily  stops  ; 

There  is  sap  in  the  storm-torn  bush  ; 

And,  ruffled  by  gusts  in  a  snow-blurred  copse, 

*  Pity  to  wait '  sings  a  thrush. 

Love,  there  are  few  Springs  left  for  us  ; 
They  go,  and  the  count  of  them  as  they  go 
Makes  surer  the  count  that  is  left  for  us. 
More  than  the  east  wind,  more  than  the  snow, 

8i 


I  would  put  back  these  hours  that  bring 
Buds  and  bees  and  are  lost ; 
I  would  hold  the  night  and  the  frost, 
To  save  for  us  one  more  Spring. 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY. 


APRIL    MORNING 


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